


Triage

by templeandarche



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Lost Issue?, Medical Examination, Mild Language, Non-Chronological, Non-Graphic Descriptions of Superhero Related Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeandarche/pseuds/templeandarche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate's recovering from a mild case of gun shot, courtesy from the weirdo Circus guys from Hawkeye #2. Slight AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> For geckoholic. Hope you enjoy.

On the eighth day, when Clint threatened to toss her copy of _Born to Run_ out the window, Kate Bishop (also known as ~~Hawkingbird~~ , ~~Hawkette~~ , ~~Taskmistress~~ , **Hawkeye** , and practically an Avenger) realized she would’ve been better off explaining the bill for in-home care to her father than suffering through another moment of Nurse Barton.

“I can’t do it anymore, Katie.” He dangled the Bruce Springsteen CD over the window pane’s edge. “If I gotta listen to _Thunder Road_ one more time, things’ll get ugly.”

Clint met her narrowed eyes with dramatic wiggling fingers and she scowled in response. He jerked back and barely managed to avoid the purple coffee mug that shattered against the wall beside his head. 

It took her a second to realize that she’d completely misjudged the situation. Not only had she missed his annoying, stupid head, (and sacrificed her coffee mug in the process, which was adding insult to injury, because _hello - she never missed, thank you so much circus jerks_ ) but his hand no longer held her copy of what was, in her humble opinion, a true American classic. 

“Aww, CD, no.”

***

_8 days earlier_

“Okay, this _looks_ bad.” Clint said and pointed at the X-Ray still pinned to the illuminator. 

Moments earlier, the ER doctor had traced the trajectory of the bullet that’d gone straight through her upper thigh, with zero ricochet. Apparently, the doctor didn’t think this was all that exciting, and she couldn’t help but notice the slight disappointment he’d shown when he realized that both her femur and femoral artery were missed (so maybe through and through gunshot wounds weren’t the most incredible superhero-related injuries he’d seen - this was New York, after all). 

The doc had then diagnosed her with a non-operative wound requiring no surgery, but needing a thorough cleaning and debridement. And _just to be sure_ he’d cheerfully added on a tetanus shot. Dick.

Clint gestured to the X-ray again. “But I’ve seen way worse, Kate.”

He rolled up his sleeve and poked at a dime sized mass of white scar tissue on his shoulder. “I’ve been hit, Nat’s taken a round or two. Like, you don’t spend that much time doing super secret spy stuff and not get grazed every now and then. I remember this time when Bobbi and I…”

He lowered his sleeve and rubbed the back of his neck and switched topics when she groaned (partly in pain, mainly in annoyance), apparently understanding that waiting to get your first bullet wound cleaned out and stitched up maybe wasn’t the best time for old Avengers stories. “Anyway, what I mean is - on the scale of injuries you can get while wearing the tights, yours is a frickin’ jackpot.”

Kate gritted her teeth. “Gee, thanks, Hawkeye. I’m glad to know this hole in my leg is the equivalent to winning the lottery. A minimal two weeks of solid bedrest is going to be so much _futzing_ fun.” She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, trying to work through the pain. “Also, pick a metaphor.”

She felt a cool hand on her brow, that gently pushed back her sweat soaked bangs.

“You’re gonna be ok, Katie-Kate. Promise.”

***

The first day of recovery wasn’t as awful as she’d expected. 

But then, morphine really could improve any situation. Hell of a drug, that.

(And Clint had sworn under penalty of death and an arrow to his nether regions to never, _ever_ mention how he’d carried Kate up four flights of stairs, fireman style, since his building sucked in the elevator department.)

Kate observed through drowsy eyes that the pullout couch had been made up for her. Someone had dug up a few gossip rags and placed them on the beat-up coffee table beside her bed, added a couple bottles of water, and her favourite purple Hawkeye mug. The bedspread looked like it might have been washed at some point this year, and even through her drugged haze Kate swore the apartment was cleaner than the last time she’d been in it.

There was also a crayon drawing of Kate in her costume, firing arrows at what looked like stick figures wearing Adidas track suits with “Bro” in word bubbles above their heads. Underneath the picture was a painstakingly block printed “GET WELL SOON KATE”, obviously made by someone with small fingers just learning their letters. The E in Kate faced backwards.

“Simone and her kids got this setup ready for you while we were at the hospital.” Clint helped her hobble over to the pullout and she used his body for balance as she very carefully lowered herself to the mattress. Kate hissed as he elevated her leg, the only time the pain overruled the fog.

The springs squealed as the bed dipped under Lucky’s weight. He pressed a cold, wet nose into her face and licked once, then again before turning and settling his warm, furry body down beside her. 

“Good pizza dog,” she mumbled while clownishly patting him, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative from the shot they’d given her before she was discharged.

Clint rattled the bottle of antibiotics and plunked it down beside the bottled water. He popped the cap off of a second prescription bottle and added two Percocet pills for when she woke up. “If you need anything, just let me know. OK, Kate?” 

“Mmkay” she said, then smiled as sleep took over. “Hawkeye out.”

Clint waited until the snoring started before he pulled her blanket up and adjusted the pillows underneath her head.

He wandered over to the kitchen island and sniffed at the pot of coffee he’d made two nights ago, shook his head, then dumped it into the sink. He debated making a fresh pot but his back ached from the waiting room chairs, and _christ_ he wanted a shower.

He settled for falling face first onto his own bed and was out cold in seconds.

***

By day three, the novelty of having Clint as her manservant had worn off - especially when she had to pee.

At that point, she was just grateful that she wasn’t rank enough to need a shower.

Yet.

***

Day five started off well. They hadn’t squabbled for almost six hours (they’d both been asleep, but whatever); instead, they marathoned Netflix on Kate’s laptop. Her stomach had finally adjusted enough to the pain meds so she could handle solid food. Ravenous, she’d demanded carbs: pizza, pasta, garlic bread - the works. Plus, Pizza Dog needed pizza.

Kate shifted over, bracing her leg so Clint had room to stretch out beside her while Lucky chewed a bit of crust at their feet. Kate knew he was exhausted - there had been some sort of Avengers related skirmish the night earlier. Clint claimed they’d won, but he looked like crap.

There was a band-aid under his right eye and his knuckles were bruised from fighting. The square shaped bump showing under his t-shirt was a dressing for three claw like gouges running down his ribs that she’d applied herself. Clint swore he hadn’t pissed off Wolverine - it was only some sort of ‘demony thing that Strange needed help dealing with, ow, ow, ow’.

Kate knew he was working over time, between dealing with the tenants in the building (“The _tiny Simones_ flushed an entire Millennium Falcon’s worth of Legos down their toilet - that was a fun thing”), handling his normal Avengers responsibilities (“Thank God arrows are useless in space, I hate space”) and taking care of her bum leg (“You want more coffee?”).

He’d been kind enough to go over to her place and pick up some necessities: clothes, deodorant (which could only work so much magic), tooth and hair brushes, CDs and books to keep her occupied, plus her laptop. 

So Kate didn’t argue when Clint asked to watch season one of the _A-Team_ \- she figured she owed him at least a few episodes of that TV relic for everything he’d done for her lately.

He fell asleep, slumped down on her shoulder, sometime during the third episode (after the A-Team had been asked for help, but before the plan came together). 

She liked the sensation of him pressed against her, feeling the breath enter and exit his body. Clint looked sweet like this; little younger, almost innocent. She’d half expected to see drool. 

He nuzzled his cheek against her bare arm and she shivered. Kate reached across with her free hand and touched his head, softly running her fingers through his hair. 

Lucky sighed and stretched his limbs before jumping down to find his water dish, jostling Clint as he left. He stirred, eyes fluttering as he woke and Kate snatched her hand back before his brain could register what she was doing. “Hey Katie-Kate?” he asked, eyes finally open.

“Yeah, Clint?”

“Remember the Mole Man and his weird, subterranean creatures that the Fantastic Four and the old Avengers used to fight sometimes?” 

She nodded and watched him sit up and slink over to the edge of the bed. “You smell so much worse than they did right now.”

Clint ran for the stairs leading to the second level of his loft and _just_ cleared the landing as one of Kate’s crutches sailed past, smashing hard into the wall. 

“Gotta work on that aim, Hawkeye.” He cheerfully called to her before disappearing into the bathroom.

Kate was pleased that she hadn’t opened her stitches, but upset that her reflexes were off.

“Should’ve hit that idiot right in his stupid, futzing mouth.”

***

On the last day of her first week at Hotel Hawkeye, Clint solved the shower problem by placing a plastic lawn chair in the tub so Kate could sit comfortably without straining her healing leg and finally wash her hair.

“It’s a peace offering, Kate.” He said, referring to his unfortunate Mole Man comment from two days earlier. Clint had avoided her until now, probably hoping some time away would help his case.

She scowled, arms crossed, seated on his barstool in the kitchen. Clint cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m really happy you’re up and moving around on your own.”

‘It’s nice to see you’re almost back on your feet.”

Kate tapped the crutch beside her. “Still have one left, Barton.”

Later, after apologizing again, he helped her strip down to her underwear and bra, and get situated in the chair. Kate hugged her shoulders and waited for Clint to make some inappropriate comment about her breasts. When he only cleared his throat, she blushed in response and prayed for a space-time portal to open, aliens to invade and the Hulk to go on another rampage.

Kate would gladly take any of those scenarios to escape her most awkward moment since catching her father and first step-monster _in flagrante delicto_.

Clint thankfully broke the awkwardness by handing her the bottles of shampoo and conditioner he’d brought from her place. She arranged them carefully within arms reach along the edge of the tub. “Got any soap?” Kate asked.

There was a tiny sliver of dried up something that sat in his shower caddy. It might have been soap. Once, maybe.

Twenty years ago, anyway.

Clint shrugged and opened the door to the cupboard under the sink. He bent down and rummaged through the contents until he found a green box. He pulled out a wrapped bar, quickly stripped it and handed a brand new piece of soap to her.

Kate held the bar to her nose and sniffed. “Irish Springs. Really, Clint? Really?”

He glared, but before he could offer a retort, his pants beeped. Kate rolled her eyes, finding it hilarious that with all the Avengers tech at his disposal, Clint still clung to his pager. Most days he couldn’t even find his cell phone.

“Sorry Kate, gotta run.” He passed her a plastic bag. “Wrap your leg in that to protect it from the water.” The door closed and he was gone.

Off to save the galaxy, again - while she was stuck, sitting semi-naked in a chair in Barton’s shower.

“Be careful, Hawkeye.” she said, knowing he wouldn’t hear.

Kate sighed, and went to work. The bra was the easy part to take off and she tossed it one handed into the corner. Her panties would be more challenging. A few moments of grunting and shimmying the cotton delicately over her thighs and then she was free. Kate fixed the bag to her thigh and turned the dial, moaning out loud when the warmth hit her skin. She tilted her head back and for a few minutes just enjoyed the heat from the water rushing down her body. 

Kate washed her hair twice and liberally coated herself in Clint’s soap (she would never admit this to him, but she _liked_ how he smelled) before rinsing the suds away. The pipes groaned, and the water cooled. Kate reluctantly switched off the stream and rung out the excess moisture from her hair.

She shivered as the hot water cooled on her skin and reached for the towel Clint had left waiting on the rack for her.

The towel that he was _supposed_ to have left waiting on the rack for her.

"Ugh, Barton you are such an ass."

***

They both agreed to never again speak of the events that occurred on the eleventh day. 

It would be two months before she handle the smell of peaches again (fucking schnapps) and even longer for Clint’s little grey haired neighbour to stop giving her the stink eye every time she visited the building.

At least they’d managed to put the fire out _before_ it required actual Firefighters. 

***

Kate woke early on the last day of her two week sentence. She snuggled up with Lucky who had joined her on the pull out. He cheerfully wagged his tail and yawned in her face.

“Yuck. Doggy morning breath.” Kate wrinkled her nose and stretched, wincing as her back complained in spasms about Clint’s crappy couch. She gingerly extended her leg, gently working her muscles and was pleased with the results. Her thigh was sore and stiff and she couldn’t handle prolonged periods of time on her feet without help from Clint or her crutch but she could feel the deep set itch in her leg and knew she was healing.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the fading scent of scorched wood. Caffeine beckoning, Kate hobbled slowly over to the kitchen. A few of Clint’s cupboards bore blast marks, as if some sort of incendiary device had detonated inside his apartment.

“Stupid trick arrows.” Kate muttered as she searched for a clean coffee mug. 

“Aww, coffee, I love you.” She gulped back her first swallow, ignoring the heat and cursed when she dripped some on her t-shirt. 

Kate took another hit and started to feel almost human. 

Lucky joined her in the kitchen and softly padded in a circle around the island, before sitting at her feet and gazing hopefully up at her.

She smiled and reached down to scratch his ears, before locating the box of dog treats Clint kept stashed on top of the fridge.

Lucky was working on his third Milk Bone of the morning when Kate heard keys jingle outside the entrance. Lucky barked excitedly, momentarily forgetting his treat. He danced around the door to the apartment, nails clicking out a fast rhythm on the floor.

Clint entered, arms full of shopping bags. “Hey Kate! Picked up breakfast.”

Kate rested on the stool while Clint unloaded everything on the island. “Figured bagels would be OK.”

‘Yeah, sure.” 

Clint grabbed her mug and downed the rest of her drink. “Thanks Barton, that was the last clean mug in this place.” 

“What, so we can’t share a cup of coffee?” He demanded, half in jest. “Do I have cooties? Are we six again?”

He stopped and scratched his head. “Actually - that may have really happened before.” 

“Avengers cooties are not a thing, dude.” Kate said, tapping her fingers against the counter, signaling her need for a refill. 

“No - the becoming six again.” Clint filled the mug, and set it down in front of her. "Don't ask. All sorts of futzed up crap happens when you involve the magics."

He glanced down at the pot in his hand and at the overflowing pile of unwashed dishes that sat in the sink. Shrugging, he drank straight from the coffee pot. "So I was thinking," he paused to take another swallow, "after breakfast - target practice. Loser does the dishes."

"You up to the challenge, Hawkeye?"

Kate smiled. "Any time, Hawkeye."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my amazing betas for advice, nit picking and long chats on AIM. I'm sorry I ever doubted your Marvel comics love/hate. You're futzing awesome.


End file.
